It’s good to spare little dogs’ dignity

Monday

Jan 14, 2008 at 6:00 AM

George Barnes Barnestorming

It really would make a nice title for a B-grade cult movie: “The Attack of the Tiny Dogs.”

It could star up-and-coming actors, half of whom would be killed off, one by one, as they foolishly roamed around in the dark, alone, and the other half would rise above their troubled lives to save the town from the ravages of half-fed Pomeranians.

I admit my knowledge of small dogs is limited. I can barely tell the difference between a Dandie Dinmont Terrier and a Schipperke. And yes, tiny is a relative term; but anyone with half a brain can tell tiny dogs from larger canines. The little ones sound different. They move differently. And, when around me, they act differently.

Larger dogs generally like me, except when I steal their food or smell too much like my cat. If they are raised right, they are friendly.

Not so with their tiny cousins. Based on two recent incidents, I suspect small dogs think of themselves as fierce creatures, and would like nothing better than to sink their teeth into me.

I am not exaggerating. A few weeks ago, out for a pleasant jog near home, I was in something of a zone — hobbling along, watching out for cars, but not much else. Suddenly, I heard what sounded like a two-cylinder engine with one cylinder missing. It was the loud, clattery, almost frantic noise we all know as the yipping small dogs make when they are hungry, angry, happy, sad, confused or crazy.

I ignored it because I knew it was a small dog, assuming that, like most little dogs, it would quickly get bored with me and turn its attentions to someone else. The noise grew louder. I picked up my pace.

Suddenly I felt something grab my pant leg and hold on. I looked. It was a tiny dog. Its fangs had my pants in a death grip. I tried to shake it off. It wouldn’t let go. I dragged it along behind me for about 10 steps.

Finally I stopped, looked at it, and in a loud voice asked, “What are you doing?”

I expected to be growled at or ignored. But the dog stopped, let go of my leg and stared at me with a confused and slightly panic-stricken look on its face.

“Go home, you idiot,” I said — and much to my surprise it turned around and scampered away.

Score one for the mean guy who picks on little dogs.

This past week, I was doing more of the same on another street. I was again lost in thought when another, possibly mutated, tiny dog came scampering out onto the road, barking in its odd and endearing way.

I say that it may have mutated because this one was not just frisky. It was ready to take me down, Chuck Norris and Rambo style.

The creature, I mean the cute little puppy, raced after me as I passed its driveway and it literally bumped into me like a Native American counting coup.

Counting coup, according to boardgamegeek.com, was a non-violent way Native American braves would prove their courage during battle. They would risk death racing up to their enemies and whacking them either with their hand or a stick and then racing off. It was an exceptionally hazardous game of chicken.

That may have been what the tiny dog was trying to do to me, because it did not bite me, but made several runs at me before heeding its owner’s calls to return to the driveway. My little attacker also may have given up because I stopped running and walked for a while, hoping it would calm down and leave me alone. It did leave me alone, temporarily.

I walked for what I thought was a long enough distance to discourage a kill-trained pit bull, let alone a peppy puppy, and then started running again. As soon as I started running, Chief Cute-As-A-Button again charged out after me, this time brushing past me and circling around several times before ending the second attack and returning to its owner in the driveway.

I write this because I know dog attacks like those two can result in complaints to the animal control officer, hearings before the Board of Selectmen and animals being banished from town, subjected to muzzles or permanently chained to the garage until they grow old and bitter.

I could have reported the “attacks,” but I am from a different era. When I was a child, everyone owned dogs, and being chased by a howling pack was part of growing up. The dogs chased us and we fled for our lives. We both stayed fit and healthy.

Occasionally a dog forgot the rules and bit someone. Occasionally a person bit a dog, but mostly it was an equal and harmless contest.

Today the world is different, and dog owners are expected to keep their pets from mauling people who are out power walking in their neighborhoods.

But dogs don’t bother me. My biggest problem with little dogs, in particular those that try to eat me, is deciding when it is polite to laugh. Being pursued by a little cartoon character barking and yipping and drooling, I find it hard not to smile. But laugh? I’m not sure.

I wouldn’t want to hurt its feelings or shatter its illusion of being a fierce creature.